


The Voice

by callmedok



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Undeath, Creepy, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Mythology, Pre-Episode: e033 Cassette, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2019-11-04 06:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17893457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmedok/pseuds/callmedok
Summary: Cecil is known as the Voice, a God fluid in nature, in being, where the only constant is his voice. Carlos is the God of Discovery and Change, forced to forget even as his core nature draws him back to where his beloved is.Somehow, they manage to strike back.





	The Voice

**Author's Note:**

> Many moons ago in the fall of 2013, when I was young and didn't let a 18+ warning stop me for I was full of hubris, there existed the Nightvale Community Kink Meme. And I, for the foolish man I was, entered it's embrace and began to fill out some prompts.
> 
> What you see before you is one such prompt, written while all we still had was mysterious doubles and sand storms that couldn't be explained. Before American Gods was slated for its own show, and I had read the book barely a month or to previously. 
> 
> Enjoy this time capsule of older writing.

The Voice has always been there.  
  
It has lulled you to sleep in the darkest nights, has chilled you to the bone on others, and has been a constant companion even if you hadn't realized it yet.  
  
It has taken numerous forms, but it has always been there.  
  
(They thought They had killed It. All They did was force It to return to an older, almost more favored form.)  
  
*

One day, a stranger in white comes to town. He heads straight to the radio station without hesitance, and very few of Night Vale's residents dare to look in his direction. They know when not to do something, even when they honestly want to.  
  
What happens in the sound booth during the weather is completely unknown.  
  
(However, it would go something like this:

"A storm's coming."  "I know."  "Which side will you stand with? Old or New?"

There is a flash of too-many-teeth, a grin far too wide, and the next the other speaks it sounds as if two are speaking in perfect unison. "My own. Leave the premises now, or Station Management will want to have a word."

There is a brief grumbling, before "What will the other god have to say about this?"

here is a moment of silence, perhaps stunned, shocked, or not. Then there is a snarled "Get out." A door slams, and rather hurriedly the other begins to dial a number that by all rights shouldn't be in his possession. He needs to check on the object of his affection and hope that the stranger hasn't done anything yet.

Damn the guidelines, he'll just mess with the radio waves a bit.)  
  
The stranger leaves with a scowl, and after the weather is over their radio host sounds...off. They have heard him fawning over people, have heard him give alerts and warnings but this...underlying fury is surprising.  In all the years the radio host's voice has never changed, they have never heard this anger threatening to bubble up, threatening to warp this calm tone into something monstrous. Words are almost snarled, almost screamed into the mike.  
  
None know why this is occurring, except for a small select group.  
  
Intern Dana, dear sweet Intern Dana says nothing as he crumbles, imply goes to refill his mug with fresh coffee. It is an offering, a unique sacrifice, and he gives her a shaky smile as she places it by his hand. The Hooded Ones screech in anger that some infidel, some false god has angered one of the ones they worship and begin to gather a sacrifice to bolster the one in dire need. Station Management shivers and convulses, sensing a disturbance in their Master.  
  
(Not their Creator, who has yet to Awaken. Their Creator soon will, however.)  
  
And somewhere across town,in a makeshift laboratory, Carlos the scientist with beautiful hair frowns for some unidentifiable reason. Cecil has just called him, an undercurrent of worry in his almost friend's voice, and something...feels wrong now. Nothing that Cecil asked about happened, but something still seems wrong.  
  
*

Night Vale has always existed.  
  
Except when it hadn't.

*

As long as any Night Vale resident can remember, there has been the Voice.  
  
Even before the invention of the radio, or a way to transmit information electronically, the vibrations of the blood stone circles provided a conduit. Nowadays the radio is used for sheer simplicity, and it has always been the same voice. The only thing that has ever changed is the man behind the voice, how his appearance looks or what style of clothing he happens to wear.  
  
There had always been few newcomers, and generally the newcomers either ran away in terror after a few days or became incorporated with the town until it was as if they'd always been there.  
  
Until recently, however.  
  
Everything changed when the scientist with dark curly hair and a caramel voice set up shop (so to speak) in Night Vale.The voice had expressed fondness towards some, and slowly but surely the residents of Night Vale became accustomed to what it sounded like in love. None realized how significant this change was however, except a scant few.  
  
(Old rituals grounds were reclaimed, and if it meant reclaiming the dog park...  
  
Well.  
  
Old rituals, resumed as well.)

*

Tired physically,he leans his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror.  
  
_'How are things, associate mine?'_ a voice murmurs, all past pretense of cheer long since faded.  
  
Eyelids drooping, everything slightly blurry around the edges, he removes his forehead from the glass. "Same old same old, I assume. Well, almost." He replies to the man of the reflection, the man wearing and dripping with red.  
  
There is a sudden shark grin, to others it would mean dinner but for them it is oddly comforting.  
  
_'So He is...'_ the man in red begins, a slight hint of joy in his words.  
  
"In fragments, slowly but surely." He replies, and against his will his lips stretch into a tired smile.  
  
_'Good, good...'_ an almost delighted sigh, followed by something stated rather darkly, _'And what of our...pest?'_

The last word is hissed, because while they may be opposites He is Theirs. The god of discovery, of change has been theirs for quite a while.

And the pest had the gall to threaten their beloved.  
  
He scowls, and clenches his hands hard enough to leave faint crescent outlines on his palms. "Pest has yet to return.Beware associate of mine, he may attempt to persuade you as well." He replies, eyes flashing pure white to the other's obsidian. The other chuckles darkly, and presses one of their hands to the glass leaving a bloody print.  
  
_'Let's see him try,'_ his reflection,his companion,his other half replies with the slightest hint of snarl.  
  
He smiles almost, hands unclenching as rather suddenly he just feels...comforted and almost relieved. He too places a hand on the glass overlapping the other's,and when he rests his forehead against the glass they are mirror images. Same hair, same skin, only different eyes and one dripping with the blood of sacrifices.  
  
"Soon, my companion." He murmurs, and the other lets out a soft ' _heh'._  
  
_'I miss when we were One.'_ the other man murmurs wistfully in reply, void eyes half-lidded.  
  
"So do I." He says,tiredness once more returning. Almost regretfully, the man in red removes his hand from the mirror. The only thing to show it had ever been there is the hand-print in blood.  
  
_'I hope to see you soon, Cecil.'_ the man says, already returning to their old little game.  
  
A game of preferred shapes, of chance, a shadow game which had hinged all on a single event that had thankfully finally occurred.  
  
"Goodnight, Kevin." He replies with an almost sad smile, because how long had it been since they had last talked? How brief had this discussion been?  
  
Then, like a television with bad reception, the image of Kevin dripping in red begins to fizzle out. Finally Cecil is left looking at simply his own reflection,if the bathroom behind him is indeed the one of his station.  
  
Visiting his counterpart's place had been fascinating, and some part of him was unsurprised at the effects their duality had wrought on that sect of their worshipers.  
  
Briefly he wets his hands,and uses the remaining water to slick back his hair to get it out of (one of) his faces. He wants to look neat, after all. He leaves, only a faint hand-print on the mirror left behind.

*

One form of the Voice is one that dictates laws, declares news, and creates.  
  
Another is one that destroys, that provides paranoia and terror, disturbs and unsettles.  
  
(Both forms can agree on drama however because there's plot development and characterization for the one of order and adventure and blood for the one of terror.)

*

They never wished to be separated, to separate themselves in twain. Being one and the same caused this issue for them.  
  
But two instead of one, the greater the chance their beloved would eventually wander to them.  
  
Their beloved was a curious beast, and at some point would become intrigued. When beloved finally returned, once beloved remembered, then they could be whole again.  
  
(Once upon a time beloved had caramel skin, a thought-stopping smile, beautiful dark curls. When their god, their beautiful god of change and discovery appeared at the wheel of a tan truck...perhaps two hearts happened to stop at the same time only to resume their business.)

*

When Carlos was a child, or at least the memories he still had from his youth said it had occurred, his abuela had given him an old medical textbook from when she had been a nurse.  
  
Wide eyed he had accepted the textbook and the elder woman had grinned, teeth like polished pearls against dusky skin. She had ruffled his hair, and that day for the first time he opened a scientific textbook. He instantly fell in love with the riddles of biology and how the body worked.  
  
As time passed he made it his goal to learn about every science he could find out about, because everything was just so interesting.  
  
(But...perhaps these are not memories. Perhaps they are simply thought constructs, formed as a last desperate attempt at a safety measure. Who knows the truth, anyways?)

*

"Hey."  
  
He looks up from the papers he's working on sharply, because the radio is turned off. The assistants and other scientists have gone back to the hotel. Then he notices the TV, the one whose mechanical guts they dissected only to find none of the common parts within, is turned on.  
  
Oddly enough,it's an old episode of some science fiction show, in black and white. The actress on the screen looks vaguely familiar, and then it almost clicks. One of the original Doctor Who episodes with the Third Doctor and his companion, Jo.  
  
(He remembers staying up late with his family to watch this show,because it had just been so fascinating. And maybe as a boy he had an inkling of a crush on a few of the companions. Can you blame him though?)  
  
"Hey," someone says, and eyes focused on the screen he sees the woman's mouth move with the words. "I'm talking to you, doctor boy."  
  
...Okay, this was weird even by his skewed standards.  
  
"Who or what are you?" he says bluntly, because Night Vale has begun to jade him. If that's a good or bad sign...well, he stopped being able to tell a long time ago.  
  
The actress/image of a woman grins just like his grandmother did all those years ago.  
  
Then she begins to speak.

*

("I remember," he begins,one of his hands clutching at the front of Cecil's shirt, "please tell me this isn't just some side effect of living in Night Vale."  
  
Cecil grins at him, and oddly enough Carlos feels no terror at the wrong smile that quite literally stretches across most of the other's face.  
  
"It never was,beloved." Cecil replies, a single possessive hand resting in the small of Carlos' back. Without warning,without quite knowing why, Carlos smiles at him after the term of endearment had been spoken.  
  
"I missed this,"he breathes,because how long had it been since they had been together? How long since the others had tried to tear them apart?  How long since the god of discovery and change had been separated from the Voice?  
  
"We missed you."Cecil replies, and Carlos already knows what he means by that.  
  
No more words are spoken as the two hold each other close, as new memories are meshed with old.)

*  
He comes for a single reason.  
  
He comes because his master, if unknowingly, beckons to him. Such is the life of a prophet of of a god however, and the tides of change nip at his heels even as he comes. Perhaps the prophet of the other will be here, and all can fall into it's place.  
  
(He wears the jacket that she gave him all that long ago.)  
*  
Their first (not their first, but certainly their most current) kiss is...well, that's difficult to put into words. It's...different with their current shapes, even if they are favored forms.  
  
(Cool analytical knowledge meeting silvered words, data mingling with stated facts, bone chilling terror and cold clinical horror. Terror and honesty and comfort all mixing together, memories of the old days on their lips and perhaps old prayers and whispers on their tongues.)  
  
It's good to reconnect though, good to once more feel whole. Metaphorically speaking of course, because they had not been created as two sides of the same coin. No, they had just been two who happened to cross paths and become intrigued.  
Intrigue lead to interaction, interaction to an odd sort of friendship,and friendship bloomed into an odd sort of courtship between them.  
  
(How they ever reached this point is a mystery to even them, but somehow comforting.)

*

"Old tried to sway me."  
  
"New tried to seduce me rather uselessly."  
  
"There is honestly no point in siding with either of them, because they are rather annoying little pests."  
  
"What are we to do then, my love? Either way the miserable things will drag us into it."  
  
"...My beloved, we shall be on our own side. No more no less."  
  
Twin terrifying grins, two beings having found their plot.  
  
"Brilliant."  
  
"That is truly a compliment coming from you, beloved."

*

She smiles at him warmly,and if his heart was still in his chest cavity it would have skipped a beat as he attempts to smile back.  
  
She's seen the y-shaped scar with silk thread still in his chest, he's seen the dark tattoos curling around her shoulders, back, and neck. He remembers meeting the sacrifice turned prophetess (silently wondered why the Voice had decided on her), she remembers the first time she saw the man with a tan cloak hiding a chest littered with threaded wounds and faded scars (silently wondered how all of the wounds got there).  
  
It shouldn't be this difficult to simply smile at her.  
  
"He isn't awake yet." She says softly, and it takes him a second to remember what brought him here.  
  
"I know. Your master called me..."  
  
(How long ago had he heard the Voice whisper in his ear, how long since he felt the old worship thrumming in his bones calling him to his Master's side, how long since out of the corner of his eye he spotted a familiar head of hair and heard a voice that had once given him orders, sending an anticipatory shiver down his spine?)  
  
"He called me long ago to inform me. The time...just felt right to return." he replies,but right now he heeds no thought to his Master, his God. His only thoughts focus on her,on the coat hanging from his shoulders (the one she gifted him), the way his shirt rubs against the who knows how old stitches in his skin, and how he missed her smile.  
  
It's been far too long since they last met, since their respective gods had been separated.  
  
"It's nice to see you again." She admits,and he is unsurprised by the stark honesty.  
  
"Over eighty years,"he replies,and he hates the rawness in his voice.  
  
She takes the deerskin briefcase (filled with his Master's tools, everything his God could ever need, not flies like the annoying winged pests think) and sets it on the ground before her fingers curl around his tie, whispers right against his lips "Eighty years and more far too long."  
  
Then just like they had in a dark alleyway in London, bright pearls clasped around her throat and in a dress like midnight, a new tan jacket hanging off his shoulders and gleaming metal cuff links in the sleeves of his shirt, his lips brush hers almost hesitantly.  
  
(The sheer relief after surviving what seemed the potential end of the world, how she'd laughed deep and throaty similar to her Master's own and he'd chuckled in reply, how after it all they were still alive.)  
  
She kisses back,and he smiles into it.  
  
Everything isn't how it should be, not yet. Their masters and protectors have not yet been reunited as the prophetess and prophet have. But just as his master brings change and discovery, it too follows in the prophet's wake.  
  
Soon enough, hopefully, it will be enough to bring him back.

*

When the Day comes, the Storm finally hits, the radios in Night Vale and Desert Bluffs play only static, the screams of uncertain Things, and (unsurprisingly) polka music.  
  
The respective radio shows are manned by interns that day, but they don't fit. As if they ever could compare to the Voice which has always been there, practically raising them in the dark or light.  
  
(No one notes the absence of a scientist with perfect hair, a man in a tan jacket with a deerskin briefcase, or an intern that somehow managed to live in the Dog Park.)  
*  
The Hooded Ones do not touch the Prophetess of one of their gods, and obey all of her orders as if they were one of the Master's own. They do not understand why she plays weak or prefers the softness of flesh, and then she will grin danger and death only to say "It comforts people to think I am one of them, and not the cobra in the grass."  
  
They then applaud her politely, proud of the similarities between God and Prophetess, and resume their daily worship.  
  
(They miss her when she leaves oddly enough, but then they just amp up the sacrifices. Anything to ensure the safety of their gods and prophets.)

*

"What do we do now? Do we wait for _the_ endgame of all endgames,or what?" The god of change and discovery asks, currently being cuddled by the omnipotent Voice that had somehow managed to find him even with Certain Beings interfering.  
  
"We live. We love each other. We continue to go on. Did you forget,beloved,that our religion has no set Apocalypse?" The Voice says, pressing a kiss to the back of the other's neck.  
  
The other god turns around in the other's arms and, smiling that perfect beautiful smile, says "I love you."  
  
"Love you too, beloved."  
  
Until the Hooded Ones are forever exterminated, until people stop having a voice in their head defining right and wrong (foolishly called morality), until change and discovery ends...  
  
They have all the time in the world, and even then some day they will return.

*

Their Creator...their Creator has remembered.  
  
Shivering/jiggling/bouncing/flailing in joy they roar.  
  
Outside in the depths of the radio station papers rain down like snow as interns run in terror, prepare to flee the premises with hopefully both their sanity and lives.  
  
(There are pale, very faint stitch marks on every part of the terrifying mass identified as Station Management, a living breathing masterpiece as well as token of affection made by the skillful hands of their Creator. When their Creator disappeared, it was them who assisted the One they were told to protect and follow orders from. It was them who assisted the Prophetess in protecting and making their Master whole again.)  
  
Somewhere, instead of running in terror as the klaxons say she should, an intern prepares a fresh cup of coffee for her boss.  
  
In the sound booth, still on air, her boss smiles. It's surprisingly understated considering the circumstances, but all will soon be right in the world.  
  
At least, their part anyways.

*

_The Voice whispers to me, in the dark of the night.It tells me to do horrible things_ -anonymous graffiti.  
  
Counter graffiti- **_Fuck you Steve,why would our benevolent god talk to you?_**

*

"Remember when we last met?" he says, caramel voice dripping with warmth.  
  
"How could I not?" he replies with a grin, eyes turning a marbled white as old things are remembered. "1920, third of February." He replies, arms going around the other's midsection.  
  
"Still in Europe, our children playing in London." He almost purrs,moving to rest his head on the white eyed man's shoulder.  
  
"You dressed in midnight,grinning far too beautifully as we sat across from one another."The other actually does manage to purr, pressing a kiss to the forehead of the man in his arms.  
  
"You in radio static gray, wearing those cuff-links I made for you."He replies,leaning into the other's embrace.  
  
"You gave me Management that day, and you left me stunned. I didn't know how to return the gesture because..well, you had given me two things shaped by your hands. How could anything I did compare?" He replies, running a hand through the other's dark hair.  
  
(The touch of gray did make him look surprisingly distinguished...)  
  
"That night you said 'I love you', that night you traced words on my skin in ink. You said as long as you could,you would always stay with me.I  consider that practically equal,my love." He says, pressing a kiss to the other's throat.  
  
"...Beloved, I never figured out how I deserved you." The other replies after a moment of quiet.

*

Old wounds long since mended, scars long since healed feel like they're being reopened as he tries to find words.  
  
(Hilarious right, him being at a lost for words?)  
  
He can't describe how it was waking up without his beloved by his side, can't quite get out how he'd been terrified because _t_ he other gods/goddesses were there, what had they done to his beautiful amazing companion? Had they...had they...  
  
(In real time he has to bite back a whimper, clutch his beautiful Carlos a bit tighter.)  
  
He can't even state that word in conjunction with his darling anymore unless his beloved is the one causing it. There had been sharp terror, the bitter taste of defeat as he knew he couldn't get away, pain pain _pain_ as they ripped so much of his power away.  
  
(It had been an unholy screech,an inhuman cry/scream that had tore at his throat. What was the point trying to silence himself? He may as well ensure the bastards go deaf before they kill him.)  
  
The mixed group of Old and slowly becoming New left him to die alone, that night. They had taken away his beloved,and it was a pipe-dream to even think the other still alive. He had resigned himself to death when his Child, a once-sacrifice turned Daughter and Prophetess, stormed in with a roar in her voice and fire in her eyes.

"Who did this to you?" She snarled, and...that rage was raw, painful, gorgeous and amazing.  
  
"Guess." he slurred slightly, the tang of copper coated his mouth and lips. His voice sounded odd to his own ears,but he honestly couldn't give a damn anymore.  
  
She snarled something unintelligible, and somehow they managed to get him upright.  
  
"What the hell did they do to you?" She asked softly as he supported himself with her arm, felt vaguely guilty about getting blood on her dress.  
  
"Don't want to know, sweetie.Just dont."He said, feeling lightheaded.  
  
He hoped he wasn't hallucinating the tentacled, writhing...thing that clutched at his shoulder, because already he felt attached to it. Then through the haze of pain he remembered who had given it to him and uncaring of how pathetic it looked he started to cry. Being near human hurts.)  
  
He never tells Carlos what fully happened that night, unable to find the right words, and just smiles a thin lipped smile as he says"I ripped them apart a while back."  
  
The way his lover smiles adoringly at those words, as if he just called the other beautiful...it makes his smile just a bit warmer.

*

"Carlos, I'm sure you remember Kevin." He says,indicating his other half. Unsurprisingly, using their human identities made everything easier considering True names were absolutely horrid on the vocal chords.  
  
"Of course. It's difficult not to." Carlos replies, grinning rather bloodthirstily at the memory.  
  
(Chaos, screams, charred skin and the way his heart pounded seeing his dear Voice laughing among it all, laughing at the madness and insanity. When his love later admitted that his more chaotic side had been slightly responsible for the incident...  
  
Well,they didn't do much else that day.)  
  
"So it's time then?" Kevin asks excitedly,practically bouncing in place with barely contained glee. They haven't killed a fellow god since that group of _l_ ow-down pieces of belief that should be devoured by the very void itself and then be swallowed by the event horizon-  
  
Ahem.  
  
They haven't killed a fellow god since a certain...altercation before/during the days of Night Vale and Desert Bluffs.  
  
(It's all a bit quantum really, Carlos would understand and explain it better but some things...some things shouldn't ever be shared. Not that damned day especially of all things...)  
  
Plus to gain more belief in such a exhilarating and delightful way...most certainly worth the effort of maintaining two bodies.  
  
The smile on Cecil's face begins to appear slowly,until it stretches across his face in such a way it mirror's Kevin's.  
"Indeed." He says as if savoring the taste of the word, already seeing triumph off in the distance.  
  
(And Carlos is wondering if his assistant/prophet has prepared his experiments. There are still a few things to finish before they can be tested under battle conditions, god-proof them to the others of their kind.At least there were enough bodies to work with, thank his dear Cecil for making Night Vale a living trial by fire.  
  
Especially the leftover interns,those bodies were the best.)

*

The puppets line up one by one, an unholy mix of technology and magic and life.  
  
Each is so closely bound together that no other of their kind could ever dream of unraveling them. Destruction however...well, Carlos wasn't sure how durable they were on general principles but they weren't as flimsy as so-called demons. That seemed good enough at the current time, considering he could always run more test trials with subjects later.  
  
Kevin was to one side of him waiting in silence odd as it sounds, as if a word spoken at the wrong moment would change everything.  
  
(Perhaps it would. Perhaps not. But words are fickle things, subject to numerous interpretations.)  
  
At his hand is a Beast that has somehow become Theirs, the mighty behemoth that had lurked beneath the hot desert sands and roared with hunger. Gods and goddesses may not die, but digestion was uncomfortable for anyone.  
  
Cecil was on the other, smiling in a way few could claim to have seen before. A smile of blood lust even as he gazes lovingly at his beloved pet, his dear Station Management that has grown oh so fast.  
  
(The sacrifices from some of their disciples and the meat may have helped.)  
  
Intern Dana and the Man in the Tan Jacket hover behind them, waiting for their Masters to give them their orders.

They can see the others of their kind forming battle lines, Old on one and New on the other. Technically where they stand is between the two, and the Voice and God of Change and Discovery find it oddly fitting.  
  
Carlos shares a brief look with his compatriots, and with their brief sharp nods...  
  
He snaps his fingers.  
  
(The other gods and goddesses hadn't expected it coming, were confused when out of nowhere unholy creatures began to circle and attempt to devour.  Somehow one person goes unnoticed among the fray, slipping and weaving through minor battles.  
  
He never raises a hand, and once he enters the entrance to the base of the New gods...

Well, he doesn't come back out for quite a while.)

*  
  
They leave bruised, bloody, and triumphant. Their belief is cemented into place, and this time it will be difficult to shake loose.  
  
The Beast slips back beneath the sands, and Station Management returns to it's place. The prophets take a well needed break. As for the Voice and God of Discovery and Change...  
  
Well, you can guess.

*

If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boot-  
  
No.  
  
Imagine a soothing voice grounding you firmly in the reality you believe is the truth. Imagine momentous scientific and personal discoveries being made every day.  
  
Now imagine two figures, perhaps not always the same shape or color or voice, perhaps always changing,being happy together.  
  
Imagine them always being capable of finding each other no matter the hardships.  
  
Perhaps this is what occurs.  
  
Who can guarantee however, as I am but a simple scribe?

**Author's Note:**

> The last part was strongly inspired by a segment in Discworld that I was reading at the time I wrote this, and the one who slipped through the fray was supposed to be Shadow, if my memory is right. This is from a string of seven comments compiled into one place, with some minor touching up here and there.
> 
> Here's more or less the original thread, because ayyy, why not: https://nightvalecommunitykink.dreamwidth.org/822.html?thread=55350#cmt55350


End file.
